Out of Many One
by Rebel-to-Write
Summary: During the American Civil War, Alfred is being torn apart by his own loyalties and loneliness. As the bloodiest days pass, Alfred realizes his own hypocrisy and seeks to free those who he has enslaved and heal those he has harmed. He will learn, from both human and nation and war what it really means to be the Land of The Free and the Home of the Brave. Historically Accurate USxUK.


September 17th*1 dawns with red smeared across the horizon as Alfred stumbles out his tent rubbing sleep from his eyes. As he stands outside in his shirtsleeves, 40,000 other men are doing the same. Alfred sits on a stump and peers into the mirror hung from the tent pole. He upturns half his canteen over his head and scrubs at his hair to get it out of his face and glares at his cheeks. His eyebrows disappear into his hairline as he feels stubble there, even if it is to blonde to see. He might actually need to shave today.*2 Pleased, he gets his yet unused razor and whetstone out of his saddlebag and sits in front of his mirror again. He flicks open the blade and slides it along the whetstone until the edge gleams.

He stares in the mirror again, bites his lip and drags it along the underside of his chin. He flicks the blade clean and begins anew.

"Ha! Well, would you look at that? The purty boy is fixin' to shave!" A thick man in a grey uniform with a Sergeant's chevrons on his arm bursts into Alfred's tent. Alfred's hand jerks, surprised and the blade shudders down across his throat, but does not catch on his skin.

"Oi, don't be slittin' your own throat before the Yanks are even here!" The Sergeant laughs and Alfred joins him before sitting back down to finish shaving.

"Good morning to you, Sergeant." Alfred lilts, and finds he rather dislikes the Alabama accent he's adopted for the moment. "So when we moving out?" Alfred rinses the razor off and reaching for another saddlebag to retrieve his uniform. He buttons the grey tunic to the thick upstanding collar that is a vibrant yellow against his throat and remembers that this one marks him as an officer, as a Lieutenant in the Cavalry corp.

"Soon sir, as soon as the Colonel gives the order's to march, we're gonna meet the Yanks*3 down at Sharpsburg." Alfred lets that sink in and tries to think of what the Union will call it, since the Yanks always name battles after the water nearest to the violence rather than the settlements nearest like the Rebs. So this battle will be emblazoned in history books as Antietam, after the creek nearest if the North wins this war, rather than the Battle of Sharpsburg if the Confederates win. As Alfred cleans up his things, shuffling his clothes and gear into his saddle bags, he finds that he prefers the name Antietam.

"At Antietam Creek?" Alfred asks.

"Yessir," he eyes the cavalry markings on Alfred's coat suspiciously. "The bridge is mighty important to General Lee and all."

Alfred hums in response.

"Say, sir... weren't you wearing a private's tunic the other night?"

"I-I-" Alfred stutters, because yes, he had been wearing a private's tunic the other night. He'd also been speaking with a broad Texan accent and sharing stories about his mother's terrible cooking... Well, Arthur's terrible cooking, but still.

The Sergeant's eyes widen. "Imposter! You're a goddamned yank, aren't you?"

"I-I-" Well he is, technically, he is a yank, and technically, he is also a southerner. "I was born in Virginia." What he expects to be Virginian rolls out in standard, educated English, a sort that Arthur would have been proud of. And what he says? Well, its something of a truth, he thinks. Roanoke had been first, and Arthur had baptized him there and that is close enough. He smiles convincingly, but the Sergeant is not satisfied. He is about to shout- Alfred sees his mouth about to open and alert the entirety of the camp about the yank who cannot decide on an accent when a bugle sounds and a barrage begins. The Reb Sergeant falls to the wayside with the shaking earth and Alfred manages to grab his things before slipping out of the tent.

The thunder of cannon bursts across the camp and men fall to the ground, pressing their faces into the earth who will just as gladly soak up their blood as she will protect them, and cover vulnerable heads with just as fragile arms. Alfred finds Berty*4, his young white mare, fighting her picket line to get to him. He cuts her free with quick jolting movements, because he cannot keep a steady hand with the thunder around him and doesn't bother with her saddle. He does, however strap his saber to his waist and the Henry rifle to his back. Berty nuzzles his hand fiercely and he snaps the lead and taps his heels into her side to send her off.*5 Berty bucks and Alfred panics. He bends low to her ear and strokes the sweet spot on her shoulder.

"Shit, Sorry, Sorry!" He says. "Whoa, girl- Berty- sorry. I forgot I had those damn spurs on."

She whinnies pitifully and Alfred sighs. To please her, he wriggles his feet free of his boots and socks. They fall to the wayside and Alfred hears the the spurs clacking. Berty snorts her approval and Alfred bends his knees to a tighter angle before tapping his heels into her sides again. She takes off and Alfred grips her sides tightly with his legs. She makes her way through a few miles of farmland and then quickly up the side of a rolling hill away from both the camp and the artillery barrage. He lets the reigns go slack, trusting her to keep steady while he shucks the grey coat that marks him as something he is not. Alfred sighs and at the top of the hill, slides off Berty and she lays down so he can lean against her and watch from this terribly wonderful vantage point.

Alfred wishes, fiercely, that he could be down in the middle of all this as a regular man and pick a side. He wishes he could pick, that he could put his weight behind one of them and declare himself the winner but Alfred cannot, because they are all Americans, both the men in blue and the men in grey. He cannot choose because he is split between them. Bodies piled deeper and internal fluid spilled until the air felt thick around him and Alfred trembles. He is hollow now, and leaning against Berty until the smoke has become so thick that Alfred cannot see the Union fumbling. Canon barrages have been abandoned and troops have been poorly deployed and no one in blue has enough force concentration to push anyone in grey away. Alfred hears more thunder, this time closer.

Alfred has never liked this sort of warfare. He has never enjoyed marching in straight lines and aiming a primitive gun at a mass of people, hoping to create a wall of lead to keep the enemy at bay even as they try to avoid the artillery. Alfred would much rather be a ghost in the forest, attacking viciously and briefly from nowhere before slipping into the undergrowth again. He had excelled at that, before*6, whenever England and hence civilization had had a shaky grasp on him and wonders if he still does before he is startled. A lone drum taps through the chaos and Alfred feels his heart envelope it. He should not hear this lone drum in all of this, but he is a nation and sometimes they are called by strange things.*7 When the drum echoes out a command to charge, Alfred mounts Berty and searches for the Union line in his shirtsleeves.

He steers Berty head on into the fray of this godforsaken hell, aiming her for the bridge that the Union must have taken by now. Soldiers are startled from their intimate death struggles by the form of Berty, for she is a very large and very white horse. Alfred knows they do not shoot for a moment because they do not want to kill one of their own and cannot identify him because of his lack of uniform, but when the surprise wears off and he cannot find the bridge, Alfred wheels around. The smoke thickens around him, someones canons have erupted and are belching metallic smoke all around. Alfred loses himself to the grey and the drum that is still throbbing deep in his veins.

When he can see clearly again, Alfred finds himself in a cornfield. Berty is still galloping, unhindered by the corn, but then Alfred sees a boy, no older than Alfred physically appears. He stands in grey, his face grimly determined and his hands firm on a bayonet fastened to the end of a long musket. Alfred thinks of the gun on his back, thinks he might shoot the boy, but the boys eyes are like a puppies, big and brown and unfailable in bravery. So Alfred yanks Berty's reigns around, trying to avoid the boy but it is too late, there is no room. The bayonet bounces off Berties side but sticks a beat later and the screaming snort of pain that Berty makes turns Alfred's vision dark. He slides his saber out, wheels a stumbling Berty around again and hooks the boy by the chest before the boy in grey before either of them really even knows what has happened.

Alfred does not feel his death. He only manages to slide off Berty and he puts his face close to hers. Her eyes are glassy and she is frothing at the mouth but Alfred places his cheek to hers.

"I know. I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He strokes her mane fiercely and fights back tears. He breaks away from her and steps further down her body, as if he is following the stripe of read that is still pour from her slashing wound. He strikes her rump and she looks so confused and hurt he can almost not do it again, but he does it again, harder this time. "Yah!" He manages before turning away. Berty flees then, and he does not watch. She is a good horse, trained for battle and well suited to him, and so loyal that he must hurt her to save her life. He hopes someone will pity his great, beautiful beast and save her life. Alfred looks down at the dead boy. He feels a sort of furious regret. Stupid child should not have been so brave, he should not have separated himself from whoever it was in his company who should have been looking after a child so young.

When Alfred looks up, he finds that perhaps the boy had not separated himself from his protector. This one wears grey as well, and looks a bit older, but not by much. Alfred backs away, because the live, standing boy is staring blankly at the dead, fallen one. but then the live boy has come to his senses.

"Stop, don't do this!" Alfred tries a Louisiana drawl, but it comes out is the broad, rolling Bostonian accent. Its one of his oldest defaults. The boy's ears prick up and he lunges at Alfred. Alfred deflects the wild attack and spins away.

"Don't! Goddamnit, I don't want to hurt you!" He roars, but to no avail, the boy has swung his rifle off his back. Alfred dares not touch his. He will not kill this one- perhaps he cannot kill this one? No. He cannot.

Alfred turns and runs, disappearing through the corn and the boy chases him. As Alfred's bare feet are cut on sharp corn stalks, he can hear the war drum in him getting louder and louder. He stumbles and falls, breaking corn stalks as he does. Fire has replaced his blood and Alfred curls up on himself, but he can hear the boy breathing raggedly behind him. Alfred's limbs stiffen and he trembles. He has to get up, he has to and he does, shoving the boy away from him.

"Don't do this." He mutters, but his thoughts are derailed by the hollow pain in his chest. His hands tremble and he throws his weight crudely against the boy. The rifle turns away and they struggle for a grip on it, weaving and swaying together in fluid movements as their strength rises and renews.

Then the boy goes stiff, a wordless cry and pink foam falling from his mouth. The boy in grey falls and a boy in blue stands in his place with a bloody bayonet. There is a thump, a shot goes off and Alfred's knee explodes.*8 Red splatters and Alfred falls. His mouth cannot contain the hoarse, broken cry that breaks from Alfred, nor can his mind contain the rise of pain. There is nothing, then.

* * *

1.) September 17th: The Battle of Antietam was fought completely on the 17th of September, 1862. It was the single bloodiest day in American history, with 22,717 soldiers lost.

2.) Shaving: Alfred's human age is approximately 19 years old in the present day, and is probable that he is a bit younger here. I am portraying him as about 17 years of age. Old enough to shave, not really old enough to actually have to.

3.) Yanks: The Southern and British term for Americans. Can be used affectionately, but during the Civil War, was a major slur against Northerners and is still used as such today by certain sects of the South who have yet to realize who won the war. Alfred is seriously conflicted in this story. He is neither Northern or Southern and since so few of his people in the South have any sort of national pride for him, he is slowly beginning to set aside any love he had for the Rebels.

4.) Berty: As in "LiBERTY". A great big, wonderful horse for the hero, don't you think? ^^

5.) Spurs: Southern Calvary were very reliant on the use of spurs in their uniforms, while Northern horsemen usually used crops or went without. I believe, since Alfred is a such a young, wild child that he might have a problem with them. It might even be cruel for him to use them considering his strength.

6.) Civilization and Guerrilla Warfare: America was sparsely populated. Native American's are thought to have out numbered settlers and then Americans on the continent for at LEAST the first 100 years of American history and early settlers learned to not only contend with the indirect warfare against the natives, but in turn mastered it themselves and used it against the French during the French and Indian Wars and then against the British during the American Revolution. We were good at it. Damn good at it, considering who won that war as well.

7.) Internal Call: Alfred is a nation, and I believe that they have a sort of instinct to tell them at least the basics of what is going on this battlefield, or at least when something is violently changing. We'll learn eventually what this particular call was.

8.) Splattering: During the Civil War, a new sort of bullet, called a Mini ball, was invented. It was much more accurate and much deadlier than anything that had been seen on the battlefield before. Before, when armies would line up and shoot at each other praying to kill anything, you had a very small chance of actually hitting anything. With the Mini ball, you could not only hit something, but the stopping power was incredible as the bullet would go in as a small projectile and come out as a splattered mass.

All in all, the American Civil War was a terrible, bloody mess and I mean that in both the British and American English ways you could mean that sentence. America was embattled and embittered and it was a great big clusterfuck. And I intend to write it as it was, a great big clusterfuck.

But it will also be a story of forgiveness, hope and historical events, between both Northerners and Southerns and between America, Canada and are brothers in this story. More as history extends beyond the chapters in this story, but for now all I can do is write them as they were and how I think they are today. I base ever opinion and every word in this on real historical information. It probably will be offensive in places, but it will be accurate.

Happy reading,

W-T-R.


End file.
